The Story Of Paul

[ormery]

(YAY, it's POEM time again!)



Paul had always been different from children his age,
If not in appearance, in brain;
Beneath rosy curls lurked a base, brutish rage,
Thinking only of dealing out pain:
Of sinking his teeth - cutely gapped but still sharp -
Into other poor five-year-olds' flesh,
And of waiting beneath their beds 'til it grew dark
And then eating them while they were fresh.
His parents would try so to tame their fierce son
Using sympathy, kindness and kisses,
Using treats and rewards - but effect there was none:
Paul replied to their kind words with hisses.
On advice of their friends they then turned to the cane,
To punishments, harshness and threat,
But these crueller methods were also in vain;
Their son only caused them to fret.
They watched with dismay as he stole all the knives -
They didn't approach out of fear
That young Paul might violently threaten their lives
If they were to dare to go near.
But their cowardice cost them too dearly that night
When they thought their young son was asleep -
Paul waited until they had turned out the light
And then into their bedroom did creep.
As his son clambered onto the end of their bed,
Dad awoke, and near thought it a dream
When Paul raised the breadknife above his wee head
But it wasn't. He died with a scream.
The noise woke up Mum, who, at this awful sight,
Almost fainted - and rather a shame
That she didn't faint, as that option well might
Have spared her a bit of the pain.
On devouring them both, satisfied, Paul sat back
And cleaned off the knife on their sheets.
A sense of morality he might have lacked
But he certainly knew how to eat.